the moon is rising...

When we broke free of London and its gravitational influence, we settled into a small, rubble-stone cottage in a Wiltshire village. The house was, we were told, at least three hundred years old and had once doubled as a boot mender’s shop. After eight happy years, we left to move closer to the town where our children would go to school.

It was only after we left when our youngest told us about the ghost. Her bedroom was directly at the top of the stairs and the position of her bed gave her a clear view down to the living room below. She woke during the night to see a man in a tall hat standing at the foot of the stairs. Pulling the covers over her head, she eventually returned to the land of nod and by morning the ghostly man had gone.

When we lived there, if ever…

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